


Darling, I'm Lost

by jackpip



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Angst, M/M, P. T. Barnum Needs a Hug, Worried Phillip Carlyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 06:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16805320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackpip/pseuds/jackpip
Summary: For once, words fail him. There is no silver-tongued explanation, no spark in his eye, in him, as he fabricates some story for publicity. For a man so remarkably able to improvise, Phineas finds his mind alarmingly empty.“Phillip, I’m sorry—”“Darling, I’m drunk,” Phillip cuts across him, grinning with such fondness that Phineas can’t help but return it, “and you’re not dragging me home like anyone in their right mind would. You’re sitting here with me, making sure I’m warm and comfortable even when you’re shivering yourself—” Phineas realises he’s still shaking a little and ever-so-slightly relaxes his grip on Phillip.





	Darling, I'm Lost

Moonlight filters through their office, mingling with the fluorescent lighting—the cheapest they can afford—and giving Phillip a headache. It builds gradually, swelling in a crescendo from barely-present to torturous as it presses on the inside of his forehead and threatens to shatter his skull into shards of pure agony. Only then does he stand up suddenly, and stride, with more than mild ire, to the coat rack.

His apparent frustration startles Phineas more than the movement; it seems as though he himself has been planning to leave for quite some time. In fact, Phillip realises as he looks at his partner’s unusually near-immaculate desk, the man has been waiting for him to be ready to go, laptop packed into his satchel and coat already on. How did he not notice anything? Pushing the thought out of his mind with streams of blame vaguely directed at tiredness, he pulls on the door handle.

“Bar?” Phineas’ equally exhausted, gruff voice asks just behind him. Phillip does no more than nod as he clutches his hand and turns the light off, yearning for the sweet burn of whiskey he can almost smell from their cramped, squalid workplace.

—

The show has been busier, more stressful than usual, what with the significantly increased publicity after the fire and Phillip’s uptake of ringmaster duties every other show. He knows it’s his choice, his responsibility to ensure he doesn’t overwork himself, but he can’t help throwing every part of himself into it.  _ Maybe Phineas has been rubbing off on him a little, _ he thinks as they reach the bar and call for two pints of lager.

While Phillip is the first to admit he can be a little lacking in creativity and spontaneity at times, and has even previously voiced a desire to gain a greater disregard for the ordinary, he wishes from time to time that he could have more than just a modicum of his old, restrained self back. Tonight is one of those occasions, it seems; he runs a hand through his hair as if the action will dispel the creeping feeling of everything finally catching up with him. Leaning on the bar counter, he hardly takes any notice of Phineas, occasionally ordering him a drink as if no more than an afterthought.

Usually, Phineas would say something, ask what’s wrong with his partner, but today he sympathises with Phillip’s desperation to forget the dark pits beneath his tired eyes and quieten his mind, even just for one night. In all honesty, he shares it too. Last night, he found himself upright in bed again, Phillip sleeping deeply next to him, heart racing in his ears as he was suddenly overwhelmed by piling deadlines and ever-increasing work and the protests and the headlines and the long nights and-  _ and God, when was the last time he’d actually slept through the night? Why does he keep waking up, sweating and stressed and shaking and- _ Phineas pulls himself from his spiralling thoughts; even thinking about it now, he has to take a breath.

When he first began to hand over some of his ringmaster duties to the younger man next to him, Phineas felt a welcome, if not somewhat shameful, sense of relief.  _ Maybe Phillip had been rubbing off on him, _ he’d considered,  _ dimming his recklessness just a little. _ Now, though, any remainders of relief have been replaced with fear. How much longer can he possibly hope to keep everything running with some  _ semblance  _ of smoothness and dignity when, even with a shared workload, the two men are slowly collapsing in on themselves?

Phineas looks at Phillip, whose complexion seems to have been growing paler and paler recently, and admonishes himself for his partner’s state. He should be able to fix this  _ mess, _ should be able to provide Phillip with a warm home, a comfortable bed, a reasonably-sized bookcase.  _ Hell, _ he should be able to buy him the vintage typewriter he’d been so desperately saving up for before the fire. In Phineas’ eyes, at least, this man deserves the world, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try his best to provide.

Still, right now, Phillip seems content just to throw back shots of whiskey, downing his pathway to Hell and lining it with rose bushes. Exhausted, Phineas sits back and watches as the man beside him drinks too much and talks not  _ nearly  _ enough for a Friday night, deciding at least one of them needs to be sober enough to find their way home again.

—

It’s 1 o’clock before Phineas decides that enough is enough and drags them out of the drunken haze diffusing into the air around the bar, the torch on his phone cutting through the late October mist with ease. Phillip is unsurprisingly drunk, leaning on Phineas’ shoulder as they traverse the desolate back alleys of the city. He stumbles as they turn a corner, coughing slightly as he half-falls into the other man’s arms. Phineas looks down at him, a ghost of amusement filling his sleep-deprived eyes; he draws Phillip slowly to his feet, slightly unsure whether or not to laugh. Seeing the shocked silence his partner appears to have fallen into, he opts instead for resting a gentle hand on Phillip’s back, steadying him as they walk further down the cobbled streets.

Phillip stays quiet, unusual for his drunken state, and seems to be only half-present, lost in thought. He faithfully allows Phineas to guide him home until he fixes his gaze upon a nearby bench and decides in less than a second that  _ this _ is the place they need to be,  _ right now. _ Whether the thought would have occurred to him were he sober he has no idea; all he knows as he suddenly begins to drag Phineas towards the spot is that he wants to sit down with his partner, and he wants to do so this second.

The bench is wet beneath them, colder than their single-glazed apartment and harder than the stage seems to be whenever they trip during rehearsals and land awkwardly on the wood. Still, Phillip curls into his partner’s side and smiles clumsily as he feels Phineas’ coat wrap around him, black felt brushing against his face. He concludes for what must be the  _ fiftieth _ time this week that he loves the man now slightly shivering against him, and tells him as much.

“I love you too, Phil.” Phineas’ voice is a little too tired, too worn, and Phillip worries. In all honesty, he has been for a while now, silent concern flooding his mind whenever he looks at the other man. This time, though, it’s whiskey that floods his brain and he finds himself taking a completely different kind of shot in the dark than in the bar, turning to face his partner.

“Are you ok?” Phillip begins, and before Phineas can even begin to form a thought in response, he continues to speak, rambling as any inhibitions in the name of reservation and control are trampled by the alcohol, “Because frankly, Phin, you don’t look i-“

“Phillip, I’m _ fine,” _ Phineas emphasises the last word too much—even Phillip, beginning to sober a little in the cold, can hear it. Instead of asking again as he’s so desperate to do, some brown-coloured gremlin living in the back of his head reaches out and ties his tongue, rendering him unable to do anything except reluctantly give in and press himself further into the other man’s side. Phineas’ arm winds itself more tightly around his shoulders, and then no one moves. Soon, despite the chill, Phillip feels himself falling asleep in the warm nook they’ve formed.

It’s just as he feels his eyes forcing themselves shut that he hears Phineas’ voice, hardly above a whisper and more  _ vulnerable  _ than Phillip’s ever heard him.

“Darling, I’m lost,” he breathes, the thought materialising and diffusing into the air as he pauses again.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Phineas admits, hopelessness permeating his confession, and Phillip swears he can feel the lacerations being carefully carved into his heart with every syllable that falls out of the other man’s mouth.

Phineas brushes a kiss to Phillip’s forehead, gentle, and Phillip softly takes his hand. He squeezes it once and Phineas shivers, unsure whether it’s from the cold or the guilt he suddenly feels pressing against the inside of his ribcage.

Held breath. Silence.

“You deserve the world,” Phineas murmurs eventually, nose pressed into his partner’s hair, eyes screwed shut, “and I wish I knew how to give it to you.” He focuses on the scent, stares at the peppermint dreams and salted rainbows filling his head.

Phillip turns to him, eyebrow arched in a sketch of disbelief.

“You think I’m not already perfectly happy?”

The guilt finally bursts through Phineas’ chest, escaping through a sigh into the night. He holds Phillip a little closer still and runs a hand through his hair, fingers tripping through the tangles and pulling on every fibre of his being.

For once, words fail him. There is no silver-tongued explanation, no spark in his eye, in  _ him, _ as he fabricates some story for publicity. For a man so remarkably able to improvise, Phineas finds his mind alarmingly empty.

“Phillip, I’m sorry—”

“Darling, I’m  _ drunk,” _ Phillip cuts across him, grinning with such fondness that Phineas can’t help but return it, “and you’re not dragging me home like anyone in their right mind would. You’re sitting here with me, making sure  _ I’m _ warm and comfortable even when you’re shivering yourself—” Phineas realises he’s still shaking a little and ever-so-slightly relaxes his grip on Phillip.

“You already give me anything I could ever want. Anything.”

“But—” Phillip reaches up and kisses him, gently threading a hand through his hair. He brings it round to cup his face, putting a finger over Phineas’ lips in place of his own.

“No. Shh. You don’t get to blame yourself for  _ everything, _ ok?”

Phineas opens his mouth and closes it again, looking somewhat sheepish as Phillip hushes him once more. He brushes the finger on his lips away to kiss the man opposite him, some form of comfort flowing through him from the action.

“I love you,” he mutters against Phillip’s mouth, “so very much.”

Phillip smiles.  _ Fifty-one. _

“I love you too, Phin,” he whispers, resting his forehead on Phineas’, “but can we please go home now?”

Phineas nods and stands, offering his hand to the man still on the bench. Phillip takes it and leans back into him as they begin to walk again.

The moon smiles down on their heads, blessing the gradient of chestnut and mahogany atop them. She alone provides a personal spotlight for this moment, framing for all eternity their features as they hold each other close. The taller man turns to face her, holding the other close to his chest as he reflects her warmth in his slight grin, her light in his calming eyes; she is sure the only reason he holds Phillip so close to his chest is because were he to look at her too, she would be blinded by their combined brilliance. Instead, she hides behind a passing cloud until she is sure the two men are continuing down the street, towards a streetlight that guarantees them safety.

—

They stumble more than walk into their apartment, and Phineas insists that Phillip go straight to bed while he hangs up their coats. The garments fall once from the hook, then from his hand,  _ still  _ quivering; he gives up before they have a chance to fall a third time, already far too cold, far too tired.

Far too _not in bed,_ with Phillip curled under his arm as he tries to stay asleep.

He walks into their bedroom, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard just to the right of the doorway in the faintest of chances that Phillip is already sleeping.

Instead, the man warming his thoughts is currently propped up against the headboard, phone in hand as he sets an alarm for 10:30 the next day that he considers to be set at least three hours early. Even with only the glow of his screen as lighting, and dark rings beneath eyes half-closed as they fight the urge to sleep, Phineas reckons he could easily hang a photo of him in the Tate—Phillip is  _ radiant. _

Seeing Phineas, he shuffles to the other side of the bed and sets down his phone, sinking further into the duvet. The other man climbs in next to him, and Phillip reaches out, grabbing him and pulling him close before Phineas has a chance to do the same. Equally sleepy—and, in honesty, feeling strangely vulnerable after their conversation—Phineas doesn’t protest the reversal of their usual positions; rather, he relaxes into Phillip’s hold and allows his eyelids to fall.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Phineas registers the brush of lips on his forehead. In lieu of words, the ability to speak escaping him once more, he reaches for Phillip’s hand and laces their fingers together.

In the morning, Phillip will be hungover, and he will regret ever having voiced his anxieties, no matter accidental their conversation was, no matter how many times Phillip whispers him gentle reassurances. Now, though, they sleep, entangled in and inextricable from one another.

Phineas doesn’t wake once.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be Phillip-centric, but for some reason I found it a lot easier to write about P.T.'s angst? Either way, I hope you enjoyed it! Comments and kudos are always appreciated - have a good day! :)


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